


A Date

by CanonCannon



Series: The Turn [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - No Zombies, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, M/M, Prostitution (except not exactly)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 07:39:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8836039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanonCannon/pseuds/CanonCannon
Summary: A blue truck pulled up, one that had circled the block already if Paul remembered correctly. Taking a deep breath and trying to keep his hands from shaking, the teen stepped forward to the curb.The guy inside was attractive, almost shockingly so. (His new acquaintances had assured him that most clients wouldn’t be.) Intense, slanted gray-blue eyes met Paul’s from under long dark hair. He wore jeans, a black button-down with the sleeves torn off, a black leather vest over that, and a scruffy goatee. The john was in his mid-thirties at a guess.This was a guy Paul would gladly pick up at a club.Maybe that would make it easier to go through with this.Note to readers:No actual prostitution occurs in this story, but related themes are addressed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Me: Is there a prostitution AU in this ship yet? That's like trope 101, right?  
> Inner Me: WRITE IT. DO IT NOW, ALL IN ONE SITTING.  
> Me: But I don't even like prostitution AUs-  
> Inner Me: Shut the fuck up and write it.
> 
> See endnotes about potential triggers.

Paul felt ridiculous.

He was wearing leather pants—really uncomfortable in the humid Atlanta night—and a tight white tank top. His thick brown hair hung a little below his ears. He’d been growing a beard until yesterday, but Gareth assured him that he’d make more money if he shaved. Johns were looking for someone on the young side, apparently, so being nearly-eighteen was a good thing but facial hair was decidedly not.

A blue truck pulled up, one that had circled the block already if Paul remembered correctly. Taking a deep breath and trying to keep his hands from shaking, the teen stepped forward to the curb.

The guy inside was attractive, almost shockingly so. (His new acquaintances had assured him that most clients wouldn’t be.) Intense, slanted gray-blue eyes met Paul’s from under long dark hair. He wore jeans, a black button-down with the sleeves torn off, a black leather vest over that, and a scruffy goatee. The john was in his mid-thirties at a guess.

This was a guy Paul would gladly pick up at a club.

Maybe that would make it easier to go through with this.

“H-hey,” Paul fumbled, hunching over awkwardly to look in the window.

“Hey,” the guy grunted, looking up at him with one hand on the steering wheel and one on his wallet, laying closed on the bench seat beside him. His accent, clothes, and truck painted quite a picture: repressed macho hick, pulling up at midnight to pick up a whore. Paul wouldn’t have been surprised if there was a confederate flag bumper sticker in back. The redneck looked like the type who would have called him a pillowbiter and beaten the crap out of him if they met in any other circumstances.

Paul needed to stop thinking shit like that or he’d lose his nerve entirely. And that wasn't an option if he wanted to eat, much less earn enough for a motel room.

“You looking for a date?” There, cut right to the chase, like Gareth had said.

“What kinda date you offering?” the redneck asked, his finger idly stroking the leather wallet.

“Um… I mean, anything really. Uh, oral, handjob, or you could- you could fuck me. Whatever, you know?” Paul tried to sound nonchalant but was pretty sure he failed.

The guy’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment Paul could have sworn he was wincing. “Yeah, first one. How much for that?”

“Fifty bucks,” Paul blurted out, relieved. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast at the shelter. He needed this.

Redneck John was grabbing his wallet. Paul barely had a moment to think _He's paying up front?_ when the other man flipped it open, revealing… a badge. “Sorry, kid—gonna have to pass. Atlanta P.D. We got some questions for you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Officer Dixon's POV.

The boy was running before Daryl could even finish the sentence.

“Shit, Rick, got a runner coming your way. And Christ, he is _fast_ ,” Daryl huffed into his radio, fumbling with his seatbelt.

The kid had scrambled over a wall like fucking Spiderman to cut the corner of the block, but he was still probably heading straight for Daryl’s partner. Rick was standing around in plainclothes pretending to smoke outside one of the local gay bars. Good thing the little bastard hadn't lit out running south. Gregory would have had to put down his fucking donut for once to help out, and God knew that wasn’t happening. At least Rick would try to give chase if necessary.

“Ten four, I see him. You’re not kidding, he’s like a bat outta hell. How’s he managing that speed in leather?” The radio crackled, and Daryl jogged around the corner of the block. He rounded it in time to see Grimes pushing the kid against the wall and cuffing him. Tara pulled around with the squad car a few seconds later.

“This is the last one we saw that matches the description, right?” Rick asked as Daryl ran up.

“Yeah. Back to the station?”

“Yeah- wait, what the _fuck_ -”

‘What the fuck’ was right—the kid had somehow slipped out of the cuffs. Rick hadn’t been holding him all that tightly, probably not expecting trouble from this doe-eyed teenager, and the boy had jerked his arm free and was about to take off down the street.

Daryl’s reflexes were faster. The cop hated to do it, but that didn’t mean shit; he still didn't hesitate at all when he pulled the trigger on his taser.

 

—

 

A minute later the boy was slumped in the back of the patrol car, awake but looking dazed. Daryl sighed. Why the fuck did people try to run?

They’d put him back in handcuffs, even though the kid had somehow worked his way out of them the first time. Tara pulled away, heading for the station, and Daryl turned to find Rick crouching, searching the ground.

“There it is.” He pulled out a glove and bent down, picking up a hairpin. “Saw this drop a second before he tried to make a break for it. Must have had it in his back pocket or something. I guess it’s not a bad skill to have in his line of work.”

Daryl snorted. “His line of work? Man, if that kid’s been turning tricks for more’n a week I’ll hand in my badge. He ain’t the one we’re after.”

“Matches the description,” Rick said stubbornly.

“You just don’t like him cause he slipped your cuffs,” Daryl smirked. “C’mon, we’ll question him anyhow just to be sure. Drinks are on you if I’m right, though.”

 

—

 

Two hours later, Daryl knew he wouldn’t be going out for a beer with the guys. Rick knew it, too.

“Christ, Daryl, no. Not again. I’m going to fucking tell the sarge this time.”

“Rick…”

“Don’t start with me, brother, I’ve heard it all before and I’m still not letting you do this to yourself again. Let me guess, he seems like a good kid, right? And you really think you can save this one, cause… why, huh? Cause he’s got those big blue eyes, looks all innocent, and-”

“Hey, fuck you, man.” Daryl scowled hard. “’S a fucking kid in there, few years older than Carl. Boy was shaking in his boots when he thought I was picking him up as a trick, and he’s been shaking ever since. I betcha anything this was his first time out, maybe second or third at most.”

“I know you’d bet anything, cause you _are_ betting anything, every time you let one of these street kids crash on your couch. How much did the last one take?”

Daryl looked at his shoes as he answered, “$300, plus my good lighter.”

“And what makes you think this boy will be any different?”

Daryl didn’t have an answer to that. “Rick, if it weren’t for your folks I’d a’ _been_ this kid. Least I can do is-”

“Least you can do is call Family and Children’s Services, like the rest of us would.”

“Yeah, only they ain’t calling, are they? Cause he says he’s eighteen, even though we can all see he don’t look a day over sixteen, and the system’s too fucking full as it is.” Daryl forced himself to pause, knowing Rick was just trying to look out for him. “C’mon, Rick, you know what happens when this kid walks out that door. You heard him talk, he’s green as a gourd, which means someone’s using him. Someone put him on that corner.”

“You’re ‘green as a gourd,’” Rick sighed, mimicking Daryl’s accent, which made Daryl huff in annoyance. “You and your bleeding heart, taking in strays… you’ve got a couple days off, right? At least keep an eye on him, try not to get robbed blind this time.”

Daryl blew out his breath and smiled at his adopted brother. “You’re a peach, Rick.”

“Yeah, that’s right, butter me up, cause you know it’s me that’ll have to spot you for rent when he makes off with half your shit.” But Rick smiled too, shaking his head in mock exasperation. “Let me know how he’s doing, alright? I like the guy. Takes guts, slipping outta handcuffs with three cops in spitting distance.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to Paul's POV.

Paul found himself seated in that dingy truck after all, just not for the reason he’d originally planned. Instead he was parked outside a McDonalds at 3:30 in the morning, wolfing down his first meal in almost 24 hours while a policeman talked at him.

“We can spot the green ones a mile off, and no offense, but you’re naive as they come. Hate to see a good kid stuck in a bad situation, is all. So if you need a place to crash while you get your shit together, I can help.”

No shit, he was too naive for hooking--he’d just been fucking arrested and _tazed_ by the first john he tried to pick up, thanks very much Officer Dixon.

The teenager chewed and swallowed his last bite of hashbrown before trying to answer. “So you buy me breakfast and now you’re offering to let me, uh, stay at your place?”

The older man nodded.

“And I don't have to pay rent?”

“Well, not at first. We’ll see how it goes.”

“Um…” Paul stalled, completely at a loss. He watched as the officer gave him a slow, inscrutable, almost feline blink.

 _Nothing's free_ , Gareth had said ominously when he loaned Paul the godawful leather pants. _You’ll pay me back for this, right?_

Paul suddenly understood that again, for at least the second time tonight, he was being so, so unforgivably stupid. He should have seen this coming as soon as the cop asked him if he was hungry.

The teenager felt his stomach twist. It wasn’t like he had a lot of other options. He’d already been mugged once in the two weeks since he’d arrived in Atlanta, and no one would even consider him for a job without his I.D. and social security card—both of which he’d had to leave behind the night his uncle caught him looking at gay porn and kicked him out without a backwards glance.

Dixon didn’t seem like an axe murderer. Warming his bed would be better than sleeping under a freeway overpass, which was where Gareth had found him. Hell, this could be a solution, at least temporarily, to the perpetual anxiety attack of being homeless. Surely letting one guy fuck him in exchange for a place to stay would be more tolerable, less degrading, than letting lots of guys fuck him for money, right?

The officer was still just watching him with those unsettling eyes, leaning back in his seat as if tired. Paul wondered if he was leaning back intentionally, making room in his lap—then realized that he was being absurdly naive again. Of course the man was signaling him. Of course he expected to get his dick sucked after buying a meal for a prostitute.

Cheeks flaming, Paul leaned in and placed a palm squarely on the policeman’s crotch. He wasn’t hard. Shaking, Paul leaned over in his seat and pressed his face into the denim, nuzzling for just a second. He felt the man’s cock stir a little before pulling away and trying to undo Dixon's flies with trembling hands.

It only took a moment before he gave up, backing away rapidly with tears in his eyes. He buried his face in his hands, mentally preparing himself for another night under the freeway.

“Got that outta your system?” the cop asked quietly. His large, rough hands were gripping the steering wheel tightly.

“What?”

“I said, you got that outta your system? Cause that ain’t how this is gonna work. You want to repay me, you can do some fucking chores. My place is a mess and I hate cleaning. But don’t,” the man reached out and clasped Paul’s chin, forcing him to look straight into his eyes, “don’t pull shit like that again. I ain’t fucking some sixteen year old kid.”

“I’m seventeen,” Paul said reflexively. Like that was what mattered in this situation.

Dixon smirked. “Knew I’d get the truth eventually.” Paul blushed deeper. He’d told them at the station that he was eighteen. “Well, what do you say? Want to check the place out? It's a shitty apartment, but I got A.C.”

“Um. Yeah.” Paul was still tearing up a bit. “Sorry. I thought you wanted-”

“Ain’t mad at you,” the older man interrupted, voice gruff. “Still hungry?”

Paul shook his head.

“Sure?"

Paul nodded.

"Alright, then let’s getcha settled. We'll talk about house rules tomorrow, it’s been a long night.”

**Author's Note:**

> Regarding potential triggers:  
> Paul is seventeen in this story, which is above the age of consent in Georgia but could still be upsetting. There is exactly one moment of sexual contact in this fic, and it goes nowhere--but please don't read if either the age issue or the theme of prostitution concerns you.
> 
>  
> 
> EDIT 12/15/16:  
> I got a tumblr (https://canoncannon.tumblr.com) so I can keep up with the rest of the fandom a bit more... no clue what the hell I'm doing, but hey, follow me!


End file.
